


Invisible at Dawn

by taylocrow



Series: Jonsa Kink Week [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adultery, American Jon, Bittersweet, F/M, French Sansa, WW2 AU, jonsakinkweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 22:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13556517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylocrow/pseuds/taylocrow
Summary: The Second World War ends and Sansa is left hopeless and worn down while waiting for her husband to return home.





	Invisible at Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> This history timeline is kinda shaky and I took French for four years in high school and that was five years ago now so let me know what I've inevitably screwed up!!

**Vienne, France 1945**

 

He shouldn’t be here.

 

This American sitting at the other side of her kitchen table, eating her broth that she tries to pass for supper, smiling in between his breaks of French and English.

 

It’s been twelve days since he parachuted from a crashing plane and landed two hundred yards from her dilapidated farm home. The Nazis had left two days before he crash landed, and Sansa only went searching for him because she thought maybe, just maybe, he had come home to her.

 

Dickon Tarly and her wed a year before Paris fell to the Nazis. He immediately enlisted, leaving Sansa to work as a school teacher and tend to their small field and chickens. Now, six years later, there is only a trampled mud pile where the green things grew and the animals roamed. The men who occupied her town had worn her down, in more ways than one, and when she saw the plane soaring from the sky, she felt a rare surge of hope.

 

Instead she found a slender, curly haired man wearing an American pilot uniform.

 

His leg was badly injured and Sansa was no trained professional, but she helped him tend it. This young man, Jon Snow, helped her clean the wreckage of his crash. He then slept for two days, and now has begun helping around the house as best he can. Neither of them have spoken about where he’s supposed to be.

 

She hears his screams at night, just as he hears hers.

 

After they clear the table of bone broth and dandelion leaf salad, he washes the dishes before she dries them and puts them away. He hobbles around to sweep the floorboards. Sansa doesn’t realize she’s humming while rummaging through her pantry, until Jon freezes and gapes at her.

 

“ _Quelle_?” Sansa snips, embarrassed by his expression.

 

Jon’s dark eyes are wide and watery, “My mother used to sing that song.”

 

Something visibly softens in her and she gives him a small smile. Jon puts the broom aside and moves in front of her, “You’ve got a lovely voice.”

 

“Thank you.” His proximity is making her breathless. The roped muscles of his upper arms are visible through his thin white undershirt, and his hair is as neat as the tangled mess could be. Sansa realizes he’s handsome, the most beautiful man she’s seen.

 

“You’re welcome.” Jon rasps as he tentatively raises his right hand to her jaw. Sansa winces slightly, memories of the previous men causing a knee jerk reaction, but doesn’t move away from his touch.

 

For the following week Jon scrubs at baseboards and naps on the tethered rug covering her sitting room floor. They hide from the outside world with a puzzle Sansa kept hidden from the Nazi who had taken up her bed in her house. Sansa goes to her job to teach the children, cleans the fellowship hall at her church, and makes the communion wafers from dank water and rotted wheat.

 

There has been little joy in Sansa’s life since her town became occupied. But now with the foreign Nazi powers gone, and kind company in her home, she finds it more enjoyable to carry on, rather than being a necessity. After a long day at the church, she comes home to Jon making imitation coffee from straining chicory root and toasted barley. Sweedish turnips were being boiled on the stove, they smelled putrid, and yet her mouth still watered.

 

“Jon!” Sansa smiled gleefully as he extended a cup of the makeshift coffee. It smelled just like the coffee her and Dickon used to share before starting their days. “ _Où tu l’as eu_?” Sansa takes a tiny sip.

 

“Ma’am?” Jon raises an eyebrow, “Sorry.”

 

“Where?” Sansa peers down at her mug and Jon lets out a quiet laugh, “You’d be angry.”

 

“Tell.” Sansa insists and takes another sip of the bitter water. It’s even warm, he’s boiled it and waited for her before making his own. Jon stirs his own brew and clicks his tongue, “My smokes. I traded with Monsiuer Charron for the barley and turnips. For food.”

 

Their language barrier has grown easier over the past two weeks, and Sansa tries not to let him see the fear on her face. She turns to the table to drop off her hymnal book and set the drink down. Bartering was punishable by death and cigarette possession was what got her younger sister hung from a lamp post.

 

“No one saw. Monsiuer Charron is the one with the cigarettes now, he’s not going to tell and neither am I.” Jon nods to the simmering pot, “Now we’ve got supper.”

 

They didn’t eat breakfast that morning since there was no bread at the bakery or meat scraps at the butcher. Sansa decides to let it go if only to have something in her stomach. No point in being so prideful that she can’t be thankful for him helping out and making them food to share. It’s proven difficult to remind herself that he is truly nothing but a good person.

 

Together they eat the turnips like it’s the most divine meal either of them had experienced. They sip at the toasted barley and chicory as if it’s the cappuccinos Sansa used to order from the local bakery before bringing home a baguette for her and Dickon to snack on.

 

“Thank you.” Sansa says as soon as her plate is cleared.

 

Jon shakes his head, “Thank you. Thank you for putting up with me and allowing me to stay with you.”

 

Sansa swallows, “I’ve enjoyed your stay.”

 

“Stay?” Jon quirks an eyebrow.

 

“Being here.” Sansa tries to explain, “Thank you for being here.”

 

Jon’s face reddens and he coughs loudly into his hand before leaning forward to clear her area. They do what they’ve done every other night, he scrubs, she dries and puts everything away. Jon knows where everything goes now, and puts away the remaining salt ration in her pantry. Sansa wipes at the table and hears him humming the very tune she had been not too long ago.

 

His arms are stretched up as he puts the tin away, a strip of his stomach made visible between his shirt and pants before he settles back from his tip toes to being flat footed on the ground. Sansa unconsciously licks her lips at the sight of his broad shoulders, then steps forward just as he turns to exit.

 

Her kiss slams him against the shelves in the unlit pantry, and his grunt of surprise causes her to spring back, shocked at her own action. Sansa slowly brings her hand up to her delicate mouth and avoids his eye contact, but Jon places his hand on the same spot of her jaw.

 

They stare at each other, searching one another, for permission, for evidence that this is actually happening. And then their lips are crashing upon one another’s in such a beautiful way; it causes Sansa’s heart to ache.

 

He’s slow and soft handed as he traces along her bones. Long gone are her soft, womanly curves after being practically starved the last two years. Her beat up cotton dress hangs so loosely from her poking bones, it’s borderline obscene without the sweater she’s now shedding.

 

Sansa shudders at the change of temperature and Jon takes her pause to grab her hand and lead her into the sitting room. The sun sinks low on the horizon, illuminating her home with a warm and cozy glow. She feels at peace when they resume their kisses and pushes herself closer against his chest when he snakes his arm around her middle.

 

“ _En haut_ ,” Sansa whispers against his full lips. When Jon only resumes kissing her once more, she pulls away once again, “Bed.”

 

Jon’s quivering, “Bed?”

 

Sansa nods and grabs his hand to lead him up her stairs, the only place Jon has yet to be during his stay here. Once they enter her bedroom, he pauses right at the doorway. “Husband?”

 

Jon himself dons a golden hand on his left ring finger.

 

She looks at him as if she’d been dropped into a pool of ice, a sharp intake of breath, and wild eyes. Jon points to the framed photograph on her bedside table to explain his outburst. There is the only picture she’s saved of the two of them, of Dickon at all, and his arm is wrapped tightly around her. He’s wearing his navy dress suit and she in her bright wedding gown, smiling at the camera in a way only two newlyweds can.

 

“Alive?” Jon looks at her, “Living?”

 

Sansa closes her eyes for a brief moment and then feels his lips against her own, and it’s easy to pretend, if only for a second.

 

Then he’s speaking again in words she can’t quite translate and doesn’t wish to understand. But his eyes are tender, his smile pleasant, and Jon looks like the perfect kind of escape she’s been longing for.

 

They land on her bed in a tangle of limbs and eagerness. Pulling off one another’s clothes in between frenzied kisses and tossing them all over her floor. Then they are bare before one another and Sansa brings her mouth back to his as quickly as she can, just so that she doesn’t have to keep looking at the way he’s seeing her. Jon is compassionate and tender with all of his touches, always waiting for her to encourage him.

 

He pushes her back onto the mattress and drops to his knees to put his face between her thighs. The sight makes Sansa’s stomach go tight and her head swirls as his tongue traces her slit. Her head falls back to the mattress as he laps at her and she moans quietly until she hears him saying something. Sansa’s eyes fly open and he repeats himself, “ _Regarder_. Look.”

 

So she does, she watches him dive between her and lick every inch of her privacy, it threatens to drive her mad. If she were in the right mind, she’d be embarrassed of the noises dripping from her lips, but it feels too good to care. Everything is tight, warm, and wonderful and then she sees the stars when he slides a finger inside her. He continues to lick at her when she breaks over her wave and falls from it.

 

He laughs into her thigh and then leans up to kiss her. Sansa licks his lips and he moans at the feel of her tongue on him. “Now.” Sansa whispers.

 

Jon positions himself above her, smiling softly down at her as he inches inside her. It’s too much and not enough all at once. He’s lowered his head right beside her ear as he begins to slowly pump inside of her, “Lovely, lovely girl.”

 

It brings back a rush of those tucked away memories, the ones of Dickon’s smile and the way his deep voice went soft as he read her poem books aloud.

 

“Harder.” Sansa keens into him, pushing her breasts against his bare chest. Jon seems a tad puzzled at first but quickly falls in line when she digs her heels into his lower back. Jon’s pounding into her, whispering filthy nothings into her neck and kissing her all over.

 

She clenches her teeth and rocks against him just to feel him deeper, and his rough hand sneaks between them to rub at her most sensitive spot. It makes her gasp in delight, and she returns Jon’s proud smile.

 

There’s something in his eyes when his name falls from her lips, but she closes hers as she feels the same tension from a moment ago building. Sansa chases it easily while Jon fucks her harder into her mattress with his fast hand making miracles.

 

She’s breathless as she feels her body tingle all over, warmth spreading from her legs up to her neck, and she cries out his name in pure pleasure. Jon’s jerky as he pulls out from her, but finishes both inside and outside of her privates nonetheless.

 

They meet eyes anxiously, but Sansa begins to giggle and the tension melts instantly. Jon kisses her all over before getting up to pass her a cloth to clean herself with, and then lays back down beside her. “Sleep.” He whispers into her hair as he cuddles close beside her.

 

Sansa grabs his arm and drapes it around her middle, Jon easily slides that much closer to her and his body heat makes her all the more drowsy. She falls into a peaceful sleep, one that she didn’t know she ached for.

 

Two days later, Sansa carefully puts two bones into her pot of boiling water to make another makeshift soup. The French government is said to get back to business within the week, and she can only hope that means far less hunger pains. Jon is tending to the garden, yanking weeds and plucking off a few ripe tomatoes.

 

She silently watches him work from her kitchen window and is hypnotized by his careful hands. Sansa wonders if that’s how they looked when they were on her.

 

She’s lost in her dreamy state, happily staring off and thinking of his crooked smile. They hadn’t spoken of what happened and it hadn’t happened again, but he still slept beside her on both nights after they’d been together. Tonight she’s shamelessly hopeful that some warm soup can grant her the courage to ask him to be with her once again.

 

Her careless thoughts are thrown to the wind when she notices his confused expression as he struggles to rise to his feet. It makes Sansa’s blood immediately turn cold. She braces her hands on her counter and forces herself to watch what happens, preparing herself for the worst.

 

Instead, she sees a familiar face with the same broad shoulders that she once sat upon to hang a painting. His hair is shaggy, a beard grows thick on his face, but he dons the very same white undershirts he’d always slept in. Sansa feels her head spin at the sight of the two of them.

 

Then, he turns and sees her through the window, his ghostly brown eyes wide in disbelief. Sansa sprints through her front door, awkwardly stumbling down the porch steps and runs her way through the tall grass into her backyard. Dickon stands tall, skinny, but strong and his arms are open wide as she throws herself into his embrace.

 

“Sansa!” He spins her and she squeals in delight. This husband of hers has kept his promise of returning to her, and she loves him all the more for it. Tears pour down her cheeks as he sets her down so that they may examine one another. Long gone are her luscious curves and vibrant hair, she’s all bones and grit at this point.

 

Dickon’s eyes are darker, his hair all grown out making him seem rougher, but his smile is still just as sweet as she remembers.

 

“You’ve come home.” Sansa places a hand to his cheek, and he leans into it lovingly. Dickon plants a kiss to her forearm and then pulls her against him once more. Sansa looks past his shoulder to see Jon’s face stoic and unreadable as she reunites with her husband.

 

They struggle to eat dinner together, it’s uncomfortable to pretend things are like they once were. There’s a strange and foreign man at Dickon’s table and a dark secret lodged in Sansa’s chest. Jon struggles to keep up with conversation, but clearly states his departure in the morning.

 

When it’s time to clean, Sansa doesn’t miss how Jon reflexively hopped up to help her with dishes. Only to be discouraged by Dickon’s dismissive hand and command that he should rest because of his injured leg. Their eyes meet briefly, but Jon hobbles away before they can share anything.

 

In bed, Dickon sleeps restlessly beside her, whimpering and grinding his teeth. Shouldn’t she be so glad that her husband has come home to her? That her life will soon resemble the one that she’d forced herself to forget?

 

It hurts her heavy heart, and she rises slowly to get herself a cup of water from the kitchen. When she enters the room, she sees Jon reading by candle light at the table, eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched tight. She frowns at the sight and pads over to sit down directly across from him.

 

Jon jumps at her presence and moves to pull her chair out for her, but struggles with his injury and embarrassment at being caught off guard.

 

“Can’t sleep.” Sansa explains and pulls her own chair out.

 

Jon nods and closes his book, “Me either.”

 

Sansa finally looks into his eyes, really looks, for the first time since Dickon arrived hours ago. It makes her breath go short and her chest feel tight. “You’re leaving.”

 

Jon purses his lips, “Yes.”

 

Sansa looks at the table and then back to him again. Jon looks so handsome with his hair so distraught, it makes her stomach swoop and guilt rack her bones. “I’ll miss you.”

 

Jon smiles sadly, “You too, lovely girl.”

 

Sansa reaches out and grabs his hand tightly, squeezes it with all the energy she has. “I would have loved you.” She says in her thick French accent and prays he can understand her words.

 

“I already do.” Jon smiles again, “I’m off to bed. Long day tomorrow.” And with that, he’s up and moving over towards the sofa.

 

Sansa doesn’t fully decipher his words until she’s back in her bed and staring at the ceiling. It makes another round of tears fall from her eyes, but she’s unsure as to whether or not they’re happy or sad. Dickon wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close, “There, there, my love.”

 

It doesn’t feel as peaceful when she allows herself to fall into a dreamless sleep.

 

Jon hands her a note before giving her a brisk, tight hug. Then he stiffly shakes Dickon’s hand and is out the door and headed back home to America. Sansa doesn’t watch him walk away, and Dickon pretends not to notice the few tears she lets escape.

 

Nine months later, Dickon kisses the dusting of dark gray hair on their newborn baby boy. The baby blinks up at him with loving, grey eyes and wraps his tiny fist around Dickon’s finger. Dickon doesn’t say a word then either. That’s when Sansa gets the courage to open and read Jon’s note from the day he left.

 

_I hope this life is everything you want it to be. May your songs always be as lovely as you, my girl. Thank you._

_Jon._

 

Sansa rocks her baby, Jonathon, close to her chest and sings the song that Jon had heard, the song his mother sang him.

 

Silently she thanks her baby’s father as she lays the sleeping child in his crib. Jon, the man who fell from the sky to fix her broken spirit.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this is kinda sad, leave it to me to take something as fun as kink week and make it angsty.


End file.
